Currently viewing the tag: "Purpose"
“Have you been waiting long?” I asked Molly when we picked her up from school a little late. She was standing under a tree, watching all the other parents who got their kids on time.
“No,” she answered. “Just 85 seconds.”
But who’s counting, right?
I hate waiting, and not just waiting in the doctor’s “waiting” room, where I can at least bring a book or get something done. I hate waiting when there’s nothing else to do but wait—when my only option is to stand under a tree and count the seconds.
Waiting is hard. My friend is waiting to hear big news that won’t come for a few days, and I wish I could speed up the clock for her. My family is waiting right now, too—waiting between jobs, between houses, between churches. We’re waiting in an RV to finish the school year. Waiting to begin our cross-country trek to Missouri. I even dreamt a few nights ago that we’d arrived at Ozark, but couldn’t go in yet. We kept circling our dorm, around and around, but it wasn’t time. Even in my sleep…I’m waiting!
There’s always a reason for God’s waiting season, like when Joseph had to wait in prison before the cupbearer finally remembered him, or when Israel waited in slavery until God brought them out of Egypt. Waiting, to God, is about preparing and perfecting, and He accomplishes His purpose at just the right time.
And, biblical waiting isn’t about impatience or anxiety. In scripture, waiting isn’t just standing under a tree, counting seconds. Often, to wait is to hope. The Hebrew word qavah means, “to wait, look for, hope, expect.” For example:
“Wait—look—for the Lord,” wrote David, “be strong and take heart and wait—hope, expect—in the Lord” (Psalm 27:14).
Qavah is also “to bind together, to twist”—as the strands of a rope are twisted together to make a strong cord. Like if I cross my fingers when I really want something, I twist them up together in hopefulness. Waiting, then, is wrapping myself up in God, and attaching myself to Him. It’s this:
“Those who hope in the Lord—who bind themselves to Him and twist themselves up with Him—will renew their strength” (Isaiah 40:31).
Waiting, then, is a good thing. It’s a chance to experience the Lord like never before—to come to know Him in the stillness, and become deeply rooted in Him, like the tree where Molly counted.
God, let me not just count the seconds until You arrive. Let me rest, trust, expect…hope. Bind me to You so securely that the wait becomes for me an assurance of Your tight grip. “Lead me in your truth and teach me, for you are the God of my salvation; for you I wait all the day long” (Psalm 25:5). Amen.
Sunday was Belle the basset hound’s fourth birthday. Or was it her 28th? I’m not sure. Anyway, at her party–the 15 minutes after church that night–we celebrated with the usual birthday fun.
First, we woofed “Happy Birthday” to the birthday girl. Then, we had food…
…and presents…
…and games. In years past at Belle’s parties, we’ve played “Musical Paws” and “Pin the Tail on the Puppy.” However…since I honestly forgot about Belle’s birthday until Anne reminded me that morning, and because Belle is still sensitive to any tail references ever since her unfortunate car-leaping incident…we decided instead to just play “Hunt the Bologna”–where the kids hide pieces of lunch meat, and Belle sniffs them out while I sit on the couch.
And then, because who knows why, we decided it would be fun to play “Dress Up the Dog.” Only, since we don’t own any actual dog clothes, Nathan contributed an old tee shirt, and Anne and Molly cut the legs off some old pants–and added a hole for her tail.
Here she is, smiling for the camera.
Poor thing. She isn’t really smiling. More like panting with anxiety. Turns out, Belle rather prefers nakedness. She tugged and clawed at the shirt, and then just stood completely still because she was too uncomfortable to move.
“You can dress me up like a person,” she was saying, “but I’m still a dog.”
Truth is, I wish I were more like Belle. Not in her preference for nakedness, necessarily–but in her ability to be herself. In liking herself. In loving the droopy, ill-fitting, slightly pudgy skin she’s in. Belle knows who she is, she likes who she is, and she won’t pretend to be someone she’s not.
Too often, I dress up to look like everyone else: the author I’d love to be, the mom I wish I were, the got-it-all-together woman I try to portray. What if I were just Amy? Just droopy, ill-fitting, slighty pudgy Amy? What if my identity was so rooted in Christ that I was only, completely, confidently me?
Paul told the believers in Ephesus that we’re blessed, and chosen, and loved, and redeemed. He said that, in Christ, we have an inheritance and a purpose (Ephesians 1:3-14). With all that, why pretend to be anything else? Anything else is so much less than what God has for us.
Lord, enough playing dress up! Let me be me–the Amy that You created and intended and purposed. Open my eyes to see myself the way You see me. And then, let me live in the freedom and confidence that comes from knowing who I am in You. Amen.
Previous Lessons from a Basset Hound:
- Lesson 1: Obedience
- Lesson 2: Perseverance
- Lesson 3: Love
- Lesson 4: Hope
- Lesson 5: Smelling Like Poo
- Lesson 6: Tweet!
- Lesson 7: Reward
- Lesson 8: Wisdom
- Lesson 9: New
- Lesson 10: Friendship
- Lesson 11: Being Stung
- Lesson 12: Acceptance
- Lesson 13: Rest
- Lesson 14: Joy
- Lesson 15: Compassion
- Lesson 16: Sabbath
- Lesson 17: Eye Contact
- Lesson 18: Imagination
- Lesson 19: Days Like This
A few days ago, Anne and Molly played with water guns. They squirted and squealed and skipped around, like two little girls who have no idea how to fire guns, but just want to get wet. Which is exactly what they are.
“Hey!” Molly laughed after taking a squirt to the face, “Watch the eyes!”
Anne confidently called back, “Well, I don’t aim! I just fire!”
I don’t aim. I just fire. How many things in my life could be described that way? My physical health: I don’t aim to exercise regularly. I just eat whatever I please. With writing…the books I dream of writing won’t get written unless I aim to write more than I facebook. In my undisciplined speech, my selfish attitude, and even at times when it comes to my parenting, I’m reactive rather than proactive and intentional.
I don’t aim. I just fire.
So what is my aim? The aim in every friendship? My aim for my marriage, my kids, my life? The apostle Paul knew just where to aim.
“I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his suffering, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead.” (Philippians 3:10-11)
To know Christ—that’s the aim. That’s the goal toward which we “press on”. Knowing Christ and becoming like Him, representing Jesus and pointing others to Him. The aim, in a word, is Christ.
The Lord will fulfill his purpose for me; your love, O Lord, endures forever—do not abandon the works of your hands. (Psalm 138:8)
This month, I turned 35.
35.
As in, now I round up to 40.
Thirty-five, which means, I’m halfway to 70. (And halfway done?!—See Psalm 90:10.)
Dye my hair blue and feed me dinner at 4:00. I’m 35.
Shouldn’t I have accomplished more by now? Shouldn’t I know more by now? After 35 years, shouldn’t I at least have my act 35 times more together?
The truth is, I think I’m finally, at age 35, becoming more myself. Defining my roles, determining my gifts…who knows? Maybe I’ll have it all figured out by 40.
Or maybe not.
But, the point isn’t whether or not Amy Storms “knows” herself. The point is, does Amy Storms know the Lord? Not, “What do I want to accomplish?” but, “What purposes does God have for me?”
“The Lord will fulfill his purpose for me,” writes David in Psalm 138. “Your love, O Lord, endures forever—do not abandon the works of your hands.”
God, what have you purposed for my life? For the lives of my children? Please fulfill Your good plan, for Your glory. You have worked in me for 35 years. Will You continue to work for the next 35? I’m halfway there, Lord. Don’t abandon the work of Your hands, God. Complete your work in me. Amen.
First published on Ungrind’s blog, Fresh Brew.
Nathan giggled at his history book a few weeks ago, when he learned about the medieval English king, Ethelred. Ethelred’s poor leadership and counsel earned him the nickname “Ethelred the Unready,” also translated “Ethelred the Ill-Advised.”
Poor Ethelred. It’s a rather unfortunate name. And yet, it made me think about my own description. If my name were to be recorded in the history books, for 11-year-old boys to giggle at a thousand years later, I wonder what it would be. Amy the Pastor’s Wife? Amy the Mom? I’d hope for something dignified, like, Amy the Author, but most likely I’d be remembered for something else, like, “Amy the Dinner-Burner” or “Amy the Directionally-Challenged.”
Many words describe us. Beth the Teacher. Kelly the Barista. Kristen the Wife. Susan the Daughter. And while these nicknames explain what we do, they don’t mention why. They don’t point to our ultimate purpose.
And what is our ultimate purpose? Through Isaiah the Prophet, God called Israel the people “whom I created for my glory.” He said that He formed us “for Myself that they may proclaim My praise” (Isaiah 43:7, 21). Our purpose, then — the why behind the what — is to glorify God. To simply, always celebrate Him. I am Amy the Wife, Amy the Mother, Amy the Whatever … for one reason only: to proclaim God’s praise.
My name exists to make His name known.
Re-posted from October 2008.
Since our house has no yard, we visit city parks often. Recently, we’ve become acquainted with a woman we affectionately refer to as “Park Lady”. Come to think of it, maybe she calls us the “Park Family”. We’ve seen Park Lady at a few different parks. She has a tiny, hyper dog, a tendency toward verbosity, and…a metal detector.
Last weekend, we happened upon Park Lady again as she scanned the sand under the swing sets and looked for left-behind coins. Nathan played with her dog, Molly helped dig in the dirt, and Anne chatted with Park Lady—at length. Later as we drove home, I asked Anne what she and the lady had discussed.
“Oh,” she said, trying to remember, “lots of stuff. Mostly, we just talked about the money she found. She found seven quarters and one dime, and now she has enough money to buy more batteries for her metal detector!”
Andy and I looked at each other. “She used her metal detector to find money to buy batteries for her metal detector?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“That,” Andy said quietly enough so that Anne couldn’t hear, “is the definition of futility.”
Futile. Some days are like that. Work all day to finish a job, only to realize that you’ve accomplished just enough to get you right back where you started. Not long ago, I washed, dried and put away laundry all day. Five minutes after I’d folded clean bath towels and placed them neatly in the cabinets, a pipe broke under the kitchen sink and flooded the floor. “Kids, bring me the towels!” Andy yelled from downstairs. I watched sadly as they obeyed in a hurry. A day’s worth of labor, undone in a matter of seconds. Talk about futility!
What happens when futility stretches beyond just “bad days”, into whole careers, or exhausting relationships, or entire seasons of life? During those times, we’re left scratching our heads and questioning God’s faithfulness. “What’s the point? Is this really all there is? I must’ve been absent the day God passed out purposes.”
God has a way, though, of bringing meaning from the mundane, and worth from the worthless. In fact, in the same way that a cold, seemingly lifeless winter actually brings about the spring, God can take the very things that seem futile today, and turn them into tomorrow’s reward. With God, futility finds a purpose.
…he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus. (Philippians 1:6)
For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do. (Ephesians 2:10)
So do not throw away your confidence; it will be richly rewarded. You need to persevere so that when you have done the will of God, you will receive what he has promised. (Hebrews 10:35-36)
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future.” (Jeremiah 29:11)
Feeling futile? What purposes might God be bringing about in your life?
Since our house has no yard, we visit city parks often. Recently, we’ve become acquainted with a woman we affectionately refer to as “Park Lady”. Come to think of it, perhaps she calls us the “Park Family”. We’ve seen Park Lady at a few different parks. She has a tiny, hyper dog, a tendency toward verbosity and…a metal detector.
Last weekend, we happened upon Park Lady again, scanning the sand under the swing sets for left-behind coins. Nathan played with the dog, Molly helped dig in the sand, and Anne chatted with Park Lady—at length. Later as we drove home, I asked Anne what she and the lady had discussed.
“Oh,” she said, trying to remember, “lots of stuff. Mostly, we just talked about the money she found. She found seven quarters and one dime, and now she has enough money to buy more batteries for her metal detector!”
Andy and I looked at each other. “She used her metal detector to find money to buy batteries for her metal detector?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“That,” Andy said quietly enough so that Anne couldn’t hear, “is the definition of futility.”
Futile. Some days are like that. Work all day to finish a job, only to realize that you’ve accomplished just enough to get you right back where you started. Not long ago, I washed, dried and put away laundry all day. Five minutes after I’d folded clean bath towels and neatly placed them in the cabinets, a pipe broke under the kitchen sink and flooded the floor. “Kids, bring me the towels!” Andy yelled from downstairs. I watched sadly as they obeyed in a hurry. A day’s worth of labor, undone in a matter of seconds. Talk about futility!
What happens when futility stretches beyond just “bad days”, into whole careers, or exhausting relationships, or entire seasons of life? During those times, we’re left scratching our heads and questioning God’s faithfulness. “What’s the point? Is this really all there is? I must’ve been absent the day God passed out purposes.”
God has a way, though, of bringing meaning from the mundane, and worth from the worthless. In fact, in the same way that a cold, seemingly lifeless winter actually brings about the spring, God can take the very things that seem futile today, and turn them into tomorrow’s reward. With God, futility finds a purpose. What purposes might God be bringing about in your life?
“In pruning, God asks you to let go of things that keep you from His kingdom purposes and your ultimate good.”
-Secrets of the Vine by Bruce Wilkinson
When we bought our house two summers ago, we inherited a lemon tree in our backyard. Fat, shiny lemons covered the tree and dropped onto the patio below. Bowlfuls of lemons decorated the kitchen. I bought a juicer and made real lemonade. I even learned how to cook and clean with lemons. (Okay, just clean.)
“You’ll have lemons all year round,” the previous owners had assured us. And we did, until last winter. Something happened then that hardly ever happens in Santa Clarita: it froze. Overnight, it stayed below freezing long enough to kill the tree. Not “kill” it, I guess, but just, discontinue the lemons for a while. (What is that called, gardeners? A near-death experience?)
Anyway, our lemon production screeched to a halt. Andy called his brother-in-law, Nick, the horticulturalist, who advised that we should prune the tree. Nick gave Andy specific instructions on how far back to cut the branches and how frequently to trim it. Andy climbed around on our patio wall and hacked away.
After chopping a few branches, though, we began to second-guess. “Surely Nick didn’t mean for us to cut that part,” we thought. “Surely we should leave these limbs alone. After all, we don’t want to hurt the tree.” And so, while our neighbors pruned their trees bare, we left ours pretty and leafy. (I must say, ours looked better than theirs.)
But when spring came, our neighbors’ trees began to grow again, and bud, and blossom, and most importantly, give lemons. Our tree did nothing. It didn’t wither up and die, exactly, but it certainly didn’t grow. No lemons, and not even any flowers where lemons could potentially be.
That poor tree hasn’t produced a single lemon, all summer long.
The spiritual application is obvious. Jesus himself used this metaphor in John 15.
I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener.
He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit,
while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes
so that it will be even more fruitful….
This is to my Father’s glory, that you bear much fruit,
showing yourselves to be my disciples.
He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit,
while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes
so that it will be even more fruitful….
This is to my Father’s glory, that you bear much fruit,
showing yourselves to be my disciples.
“Every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.” Oh, pruning hurts. Just as I didn’t want to see my lemon tree stripped bare of its beautiful leaves, I also don’t want the Gardener to prune my heart. But He lovingly cuts out any “extra” or unnecessary things that get in the way of His plan for me–even some areas which may seem beneficial–in order than I may bear more fruit for His kingdom. No pruning, no fruit.
Sometimes, I protest. “Surely you don’t want me to remove that, God. Really, how harmful could it be? It’s so pretty and…leafy.” But “leaves” are not fruit, and too many leaves, I’m learning, keep the fruit from growing.
I love Bruce Wilkinson’s Secrets of the Vine:
“The principle of pruning invites a revealing question about your spiritual life: Are you praying for God’s superabundant blessing and pleading that He will make you more like His Son? If your answer is yes, then you are asking for the shears. Pruning is how God answers your prayers that your life will please Him more and have a greater impact for eternity.”
“If necessary, He will risk your misunderstanding of His methods and motives. His purpose is for you to cut away immature commitments and lesser priorities to make room for even greater abundance for His glory.”
This year, when Nick tells us to whack, we will whack. We will make our tree as ugly and bare as possible, so it might produce all the fruit it was meant to give. But more importantly, I will “ask for the shears” in my heart. Prune away, Lord. I’ll be grateful for it, knowing that Your pruning leads to fruit, and fruit leads to Your glory.
I’ve never been described as…
…patient.
…sweet.
…easy-going.
I wish I could be described as…
…gracious.
…prolific (or, just published).
…skinny.
But, because of Jesus, God still describes me as…
…accepted. (Romans 15:7)
…His workmanship. (Ephesians 2:10)
…chosen, holy and dearly loved. (Colossians 3:12)
God, Your words—Your descriptions—are the only ones that count. Will You help me to believe what You say about me, and to not rise and fall on the opinions of others? Thank You for Jesus, and for the identity that is mine through Him. Amen.
In honor of Theodor Geisel’s birthday, Nathan had to write about a few “Dr. Seuss” quotations in his school journal. Things like, “A person’s a person, no matter how small,” from Horton Hears a Who, and this from The Lorax: “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.” Pretty profound, really, especially considering that this was the same man who gave us Thing 1, Thing 2, and a Zizzer-Zazzer-Zuzz.
Honestly, though, I’ve been contemplating these quotes for the past few days. Here’s another one that made me think:
“Today you are You–
that is truer than true.
There is no one alive
who is Youer than You.”
I’m pretty sure that Dr. Seuss didn’t mean to be affirming scripture, but that’s exactly what he did.
“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” (Psalm 139:13-16)
God created each of us uniquely. Each with our own talents, interests, and personalities. Six-and-a-half billion people on the planet, and six-and-a-half billion distinctly different individuals. We weren’t just “made”; we were designed. We aren’t by chance; we are on purpose.
But here’s my problem. If I’m so special, why do I often wish I were someone else? If I’m me, and you’re you, why do I try to be you, and you try to be me?
We even convince ourselves that God Himself wants us to be someone we aren’t—that He’ll be happier with us when we change entirely. For example, I have a mental picture of what a Christian mom looks like, and I beat myself up when I don’t match my June Cleaver-meets-Mother Teresa ideal.
The fact is, I can’t cook, I don’t wear pearls, and I probably couldn’t find Calcutta on a map.
I can, however, make up great voices when I read books to my kids. I can tack a lesson on the end of almost any life experience (much to my children’s annoyance). And I’m even pretty good at Legos, if I do say so myself. Nothing exciting, hardly glamorous, but it’s who I am.
It’s who God created me to be.
Who did God create you to be? My mother-in-law has an eye for decorating. My daughter Anne was made to dance. My husband can invent a game out of nothing at all—and a fun game, at that.
When we are ourselves–when we live in what Max Lucado calls the “sweet spot”–we honor our Creator. We fulfill the purposes He intended. We look like the masterpiece He fashioned.
So enough wishing to be someone else. Enough feeling guilty for being happy when we do the very things we were made to do. After all, nobody else can be me, and “there is no one alive who is youer than you.”
